“Come; time to go home,” he said softly, giving the old Mexican’s shoulder a shake. This did not arouse the sleeper, so he added force to his hand, at which the other sagged forward limply.
Martinez jumped back. Next he stood quite still, staring. Then he approached and lifting the drooping head, gazed at the wrinkled face and glazed eyes.
“Miguel, come here!” he exclaimed, anxiously. “Saurez is dead.”
“Dead!” The bar-keeper ran to the spot, eyes large with alarm and excitement. “Dios, I thought him asleep! See, there is the glass in which I gave him brandy at Señor Vorse’s order. The old one said he had come in to pay a little visit to his old employer and have a chat. They talked for some time.”
“Was Vorse asking him questions?”
“Yes. I think Saurez was telling him how he happened to be in town. I paid little attention to them, however. After a while I glanced up and saw Vorse standing by him. They were not talking. Then Vorse came away and said the old man had fallen asleep, and he went out to supper.”
Martinez again lifted the head and darted glances over the dead man’s breast. There were no wounds, but on the shriveled brown throat he saw what might have been a thumb-mark. He could not be sure, yet that was his guess.
“He was an old man,” Miguel remarked.
“Yes. You should notify his son and also the undertaker, so the body can be taken care of. I’ll telephone the latter too when I reach my office.”
This Martinez did, informing Saurez’s family that 141 the old man had died while apparently asleep at Vorse’s, and expressed his sympathy and sorrow.